Unforeseen Side Effects
by denise1
Summary: Sam and Jack find out an unexpected side effect to having been a host


Unforeseen Side Effects

By

Denise

"Doc, I may have been ignored the first time I said this, but I mean it this time. Over my dead body!" Jack declared, enunciating the words carefully.

Janet sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Sir, you know that this is procedure. Aah!" She held up her hand to silence his forthcoming protest. "In the last month, you have nearly died. You were blended with a symbiote. Said symbiote then hijacked your body and made you an unwilling participant in a mission where you were captured, tortured and repeatedly killed." She ticked off the events on her fingers as she spoke. "Any ONE of these would be enough to have your required to have a psych evaluation before returning to work. ONE," she emphasized.

Jack sighed. "So the last month has sucked, what else is new?" he asked, reaching for his BDU jacket.

"Colonel—"

"Doc," he interrupted. "Shockingly enough, this is not the first time any of those things have happened to me."

"You're right. It's not," she agreed, stepping back as he slid off the bed. She knew that this exam wasn't going to be a lot of fun, but she'd underestimated just how non-fun it would be. "But it is the first time it has ALL happened to you at the same time. I will NOT clear you for active duty until you have a psychological evaluation," she declared.

Jack glared, not used to the doctor pulling rank and putting her foot down in such a manner. "Fine," he bit out, cramming the buttons of his shirt through the holes. "I'm in the mood for a little vacation anyway."

He stalked out of the room and Janet watched him go, ashamed that she sighed with relief as soon as he was gone. To say that he'd been a difficult patient was an understatement. She couldn't blame him. She'd stood by his side through the worst of the withdrawal from the sarcophagus and she knew that he was dealing the best he could.

But she also knew that if there was one thing Colonel O'Neill was good at, it was avoidance. And this was one thing he couldn't avoid dealing with.

She picked up his chart and retreated into her office, taking a moment to write down the results of the examination. Physically, he was fine. In that way, the sarcophagus was a godsend. There'd been no scars, no marks, no bruises upon his body. He'd been a little skinny, but that wasn't unexpected. She doubted that keeping him well-fed had been high on Ba'al's list of things to do.

But it wasn't just his physical injuries that Janet was concerned about. After six years, she felt that she knew the man. She knew that he was a good man at heart, and that,  for all his irreverence and quirks, he always meant well. She also knew that he'd do anything for his team. And that, if it was one of them in his place, he'd be standing right beside her as Janet told them the very same thing.

She was loathe to admit it, but the colonel was a liability at the moment. She could see it in his eyes, the ghost of pain and anger and humiliation. Those memories were still too raw for him to go back out into the field.

They were a weak spot, like a giant wound that still hadn't healed. And that wound made him vulnerable. It was a vulnerability that someone could exploit and manipulate and use, not just to hurt him, but to hurt his friends as well. And that was one thing Janet knew he'd never recover from, if his weakness led to one of his friends getting hurt.

That was why she couldn't just let him slide. He had to deal with it and he had to work to heal that wound, or it would fester and grow and it would eat him alive.

Taking a sip of her cold coffee, she picked up her pen, thinking for a moment of the best way to phrase her words before writing them down. She had to report the outcome of their meeting, of course, as with anything, it was all in how you phrased it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sam finished typing the sentence and paused, taking a moment to re-read her words. She was getting sick of this. This was the fifth report she'd written this week--  and it was only Tuesday. She was tired and bored and bored and tired and... Sam brushed a hand over her face. She felt like she was quietly going stir crazy, with a side order of cranky. If she didn't watch it, she'd lose it on someone. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear she was PMSing, but that just wasn't possible, at least not for another week.

She needed a mission, and she didn't even care if it was some boring mineral survey. Anything that would get her out of the base would be welcome. She needed to get out, get away, find something to distract her mind that was more interesting than dry mission reports.

SG-1 had been placed on stand down for almost three weeks now, ever since the colonel had returned. She couldn't get Janet to confirm it, but Sam suspected the reason SG-1 wasn't in the mission rotation was solely for the colonel's benefit. It was one thing for them to go on missions when he wasn't even on the planet, it was another for them to go about their jobs while he was here, on the base and able, even if it was just physically, to go with them.

She knew that all he was lacking was the clearance of Doctor Mackenzie, at least that's what the base scuttlebutt said. And since her source had an in with a member of the medical staff, Sam considered her information to be pretty accurate.

"Major Carter?" Teal'c's voice cut into her contemplations and Sam closed her eyes, sighing. Yes, she was bored, but a visit from one of her teammates was the last thing she wanted. Jonas and Teal'c had been beyond understanding the past month. She knew that they felt guilty over what had happened in Steveston and that they both sought to help her feel better, but she was sick and tired of 'how are you feeling' being their constant greeting.

She felt fine and she was beginning to think they'd never accept that fact. Hell, she'd cleared her own psych eval two weeks ago, that should be enough to convince them. "Teal'c." She turned, pasting a smile on her face. "What's up?"

"I seek your counsel," he said gravely, moving to stand beside her.

"About?" she prodded, cursing his Jaffa reticence. What the hell did he want now? Her opinion on his next hat purchase?

"As you know, I often offer my services as a sparring partner to members of this command." Sam nodded. Actually, Teal'c had quite the reputation among the base personnel. The young recruits often saw him as a challenge to be met, king of the hill in a way.

The older officers saw him in another way. He was the sparring partner you didn't want to get, unless you happened to have a masochistic streak. "During such activities, my partners often relate to me items they deem to be of interest to me."

"Yeah, small talk, so?" Sam interrupted.

He paused, giving her a slight frown before continuing. "Colonel Reynolds informed me that he had been approached by General Hammond about the possibility of him taking command of SG-1," he said.

"Excuse me?" Sam asked, ignoring the slightly concerned look on Teal'c's face. "This is the first I've heard of it."

"I believe it is an option that General Hammond is not yet ready to implement, simply one he plans to consider should O'Neill prove himself unable to return to SG-1."

"In case he doesn't pass his psych eval," she said bitterly. "I thought the general thought more of Colonel O'Neill than that."

"It is possible that General Hammond's options are limited."

"What do you mean?"

"In the past, O'Neill's actions have often endeared him to few people."

Sam sighed. "Yeah. I think he's got about as many enemies off world as he has on Earth," she agreed. "You think the general's under pressure."

"That is likely."

"What can we do?" she asked, ignoring her own annoyance for the moment. If the colonel didn't come back then they would likely be broken up, or, at the very least, assigned a new commanding officer. And after the monumental amount of fun they'd had the last time, Sam could honestly say she'd rather go up against Ba'al in hand to hand combat then face the joys of breaking in a new CO.

"I believe that there is little we can do," he said. "O'Neill must make the choice to seek counsel and the absolution of the psychiatric evaluation."

"Maybe he doesn't want to," she muttered.

"Major Carter?"

"Come on, Teal'c. This is the easy way out. How to quit without quitting," she said, giving into her lurking bad temper. "If he never passes the psych eval, then he's declared unfit for command and retired. End of story." Teal'c frowned at her and she stopped, feeling slightly ashamed of her outburst. "Thanks for the heads up," she dismissed.

"Major Carter?"

"Like you said, it's his choice. We're just subject to his whims." She slid off her stool and locked her computer, suddenly not in the mood to continue working. "I think I'm going to take a break, I'll catch up with you later."

She hurried out of her lab, not really caring where she was going, just knowing that she needed to get away from him. She needed to get away from everyone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jack sat in his office and stared at the memo lying on his desk. The weekly team leaders' meeting was pushed back an hour. Now it was at 1000 tomorrow instead of 0900.

It sat right next to a note from Frasier, reminding him that if he didn't feel like talking to Doctor Mackenzie, the Academy Hospital had a full staff of mental health professionals just waiting to help him.

He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to wad both the memos up and throw them across the room. Why couldn't they just leave him the hell alone?

He would go pander to the doctors when he was damn good and ready to go. It wasn't like they were short handed around here, not with the extra teams they'd gained over the past few years.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, running his fingers through his short cropped hair. Chill out. He just needed to chill out. They were just trying to help. He kept repeating that. They were just trying to help.

They meant well, he knew that. Every single one of them meant well. They just didn't realize that every single well meaning look, every pitying glance, every reassuring pat on the back did nothing more than to set his nerves on edge and make him long to grab his sidearm and shoot them.

Space, that's what he needed, space.

Maybe he'd talk to Hammond, take a week or two, go up to his cabin and just veg out. He was entitled. And if they gave him any crap, he'd just retire. It wasn't like he hadn't done it before. And hell, third time's the charm.

His decision made, Jack rocked forward and pushed himself up from his chair. No time like the present, his mama used to say. He'd just go, talk to the general and, with any luck, be on the road by dinnertime.

Intent upon his mission, he left his office, not even bothering to close the door behind him. He strode towards the elevator, his long legs making short work of the distance.  A heavy weight of another person crashing into his side temporarily took him off guard, the person making a surprised noise at the unexpected contact. He reflexively reached out to steady whomever it was from the possibility of falling.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir."

"Carter?" Jack frowned, gently pushing her away. "What the hell's going on?"

"Nothing, I was just—"

"Yeah, well, catch you later," he interrupted, not in the mood to listen to any of her prattle. The last thing he wanted right now was to be babbled to death.

"So you're going?"

"Yeah, I'll see you in a couple of weeks," he answered, ready to do about anything to brush her off.

"Weeks?" she asked. "Wow, only took me a couple of hours."

"Well, you know, some of us actually take our leave," he retorted, his tone distinctly snappy.

"Leave? I thought you were going for your appointment."

"Appointment?" he asked, his voice deliberately calm. What? Was she in on it too?

"Your appointment with Doctor Mackenzie," she said, frowning at him.

Her words set him on edge with the swiftness of a blast wave. "What the hell is the fascination with my meeting with Mackenzie?" he exploded, not caring if his voice carried down the hall. She stared at him for a second, her jaw dropping.

"I'm not fascinated with—"

"Bullshit! If it's not you, I have Doc, Hammond, hell most of this base interested with my private life!"

"We're not. I mean, we are but—" Carter stuttered.

"It's none of your damn business!" he interrupted.

"Actually, it is." Her eyes narrowed and her voice sharpened.

"This is MY life!"

"Which affects mine!" she interrupted. "Don't you get it? You don't clear medical, you don't come back to the team!"

"SO?"

"So, don't you think that concerns us?" she shot back.

"I think you're all adults and can get over it!" he shouted, taking a step forward and straightening his shoulders, unconsciously doing his best to physically intimidate her.

"And getting a new team leader, is that something we can just get over?" she asked, standing her ground, her hands going to her hips.

"OH grow up! This isn't the first time an it won't be the last. And it's not like any of you obey my orders anyway!" he ranted.

"I do so."

"Puhleese. You and Teal'c just do whatever the hell you want half the time. Daniel did it all the time. About the only good thing about Jonas is that he follows orders."

"Maybe if you actually listened every once in a while!"

"If you didn't lecture every single person who dares to talk to you!"

"You're the one that wants to stay informed."

"Informed yes, bored to death, no!"

"Well, I'm sorry I'm boring. The next time you ask me to pull off the impossible I'll just be like you and settle back to take a nap!"

"I do not ask you to pull off the impossible!"

"Bull. Carter, fix the gate. Carter, fix the sun. Carter, open the glider bay doors. Carter, kiss my ass!"

"HEY! If you don't like it here, there's the door! Hell, just think of all the lives you'd save," he shot back, his hands clenching at his side.

"What does that mean?" she demanded.

"Come on. Last I heard, the Colorado Springs Cemetery was going to give you your own private section. How many are  you up to now? Seven? Eight? Maybe that's why you've been such a bitch lately. My coming back messed up your body count!"

His eyes barely had time to register her hand flying through the air before her fist came into violent contact with his face, the force of her blow pushing his head to one side and making him take a staggering step back to keep his balance.

But if his brain was suffering from a slight time delay, his reflexes weren't. Almost before he could process the look of shocked pain on her face, he realized that his right arm was raised, his fingers drawn into a tight fist.

She stared at him for a second, then her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched. "Do it," she requested. Breathing heavily, he stared, his arm slowly lowering. "Do it!" she yelled, stepping towards him. He stepped back, retreating. "DO IT!" she yelled again, raising her hands to push him back.  "Come on! Don't just stand there! Or is that all you're good for anymore, empty threats!" She pushed him again and he staggered back, off balance.

"Carter—"

"Screw you," she said coldly. She reached under her shirt and pulled her dog tags from around her neck, throwing them at him. "And screw this place."

She stalked away and Jack stayed put, afraid to go after her. What the hell had just happened? He raised his hand, not surprised to see it shaking wildly. He explored his stinging jaw. Carter had just punched him. This was wrong, it was worse than wrong. Sure, he and Carter had exchanged words before, but not like this. Never like this. When she was pissed, she tended to exchange the 'with all due respect' for a near endless supply of 'sir's. And she sure as hell didn't throw punches.

In shock, he bent over, picking up her dog tags and shoving them into his pocket. He slowly turned, his eyes barely noting that, if anyone had witnessed their…encounter, they were gone now. He walked down the hall, his anger fading, replaced by a feeling of exhausted disgust.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"They issue gloves for a reason," Janet chided, tying off the last stitch in Siler's palm and cutting the suture.

"They're too clumsy," he complained, wincing slightly as she covered the wound with a sterile gauze pad.

"Not as clumsy as coming in here for stitches every other week," she retorted, taping the gauze down. "You know the drill. Keep it dry and expose it to air whenever you can, but cover it if you think you're going to get your hands dirty." She pulled the rubber gloves off her own hands, wadding them up and tossing them into the red biohazard can. "I can take the stitches out in a week or so."

"Yes, ma'am." He slid off the bed and picked up his BDU shirt. Janet watched him go, frowning when she caught sight of the person lurking just inside the infirmary door.

"Colonel?" She walked towards him, her eyes growing wide as she caught sight of the forming bruise on his cheek. "Sir, what happened?"

He shook his head. "I aah…I need a minute, Doc." He led her into her office and she followed, closing the door behind her. He sat down in a chair, his shoulders slumped and his face serious.

"Colonel, what's wrong?" she asked, picking on his mood. He looked tired, more tired than she'd ever seen him. "Are you feeling ok?"

"No, I don't think I am," he said slowly. "Carter and I just spent the last ten minutes screaming at each other in corridor 4C and I nearly hit her."

Janet stared, shocked by his words. His voice was flat and his eyes dark. "Let me guess, she got in the first punch?" she asked, choosing to take a more light hearted tact. She was hoping that it would ease some of the despair she saw on his face.

"You could say that, not that it wasn't provoked." He took a deep breath. "Something's wrong, Doc. Something's really wrong."

"Tell me," she requested, sitting beside him.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "After Iraq I…" He looked at her. "You read the file?"

She nodded. She'd read it, wading through the inches of horrors and cruelties he'd survived. And she'd had the unfortunate job of adding a few more injuries to the near endless list of things he'd survived. "Yes," she said simply, the simple fact that he was mentioning those dark days enough to tell her that something was horribly wrong.

"After--things got pretty grim for a while. They didn't have the nifty drugs then that they do now and…hell, they were barely acknowledging PTSD," he said.

"You were depressed?" she asked, reading between the lines.

He nodded. "It took a few months." He looked at her. "Doc, I know what it feels like. And I know how to deal with it, but…this is different."

"Sir?"

"Ever since I…got back, I…" He sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand. "At first I put it down to the sarcophagus, but…this is different, stronger, worse," he finally

confessed.

"And you've felt like this for a while now?" He nodded.He H "That's why you've been ducking the psych eval," she said, the man's odd behavior finally making sense.

"I can fake it. Face it, Mackenzie isn't that bright," he smiled weakly.

"But you don't want to pass."

"It's not like there's a reset button on this test. I flunk it, I'm out."

"And if you pass it, you could be putting the rest of your team in danger," she said, figuring out his rationale. He was right. If he flunked the evaluation, he'd probably be discharged. Or, more likely, given his rank and time served, offered retirement with full honors. But if he passed it, he'd be put back onto active duty and into situations that were dangerous at best. Situations that were downright deadly if one of the team was vulnerable in any way. And if he'd nearly hit Sam a little bit ago, he was definitely vulnerable.

He slouched back in the chair, closing his eyes. "I thought if I put it off long enough, it'd go away, but…I guess I should just get it over with," he said hopelessly.

"Sir?" she asked, frowning at his words.

"Retirement, Doc," he clarified.

Janet racked her brain, trying to think of something. "You know," she said, grabbing onto the first idea that crossed her mind. "Sam had a tough time after Jolinar died."

"Being tortured to death sort of sucks," he said, rolling his eyes. He knew just how much Sam had been effected. He'd even talked it over with Janet, doing what he could to help her help Sam, something Janet didn't think Sam knew. "And there was that whole uninvited guest bit."

"I'm just saying, sir, but you and Sam seem to be having issues right now, and both of you have just gotten over having a symbiote, maybe it's connected," she finished with a shrug.

"I didn't say Carter was having issues," he protested. He knew all about her time in Steveston, how she'd been taken by a goa'uld and just how close she'd come to it being permanent. Which was another reason he'd been avoiding her. He just couldn't deal with it right now. He was having a hard enough time handling his own issues, he couldn't take on hers too, not yet, not right now.

"Sir, she hit  you," Janet said, nodding towards his cheek. "Is that something Sam would normally do?"

He shook his head. "I don't think—"

"Colonel, this is just a hunch but…Look, we thought Daniel was nuts and it was just Machello's goa'uld killers. We thought Sam was losing it and she really did have an alien in her living room. Give me a chance to give you the benefit of the doubt and see if there is a rationale explanation," she asked.

He stared at her for a few seconds before sighing again. "What do I have to do?"

"We'll start simple," she said, smiling. "I'll run a blood test, see if anything is off. After that, we'll go for a CAT scan, see if the symbiote did any damage." He made a face at her. "Colonel, I know you don't like tests but…I think this is the only  way to find out if there is a physiological reason for your mood."

He shrugged. "Ok." He unbuttoned the cuff on his shirt, rolling up his right sleeve. "Knock yourself out," he consented.

She left her office and returned in a few minutes with the necessary supplies. She efficiently drew the blood, pressing a cotton ball into the crook of his elbow. "It's going to take a couple of hours to get the results back. Why don't you lie down, see if you can get some rest," she suggested.

Not surprisingly, he shook his head. "I'm fine."

"Sir, when was the last time you slept through the night?" He glared at her. "You know, sleep deprivation could be a cause of your bad mood," she said. "There are studies that suggest a link between sleeplessness and psychosis."

"Fine," he gave in. "But I'm going back to my quarters." He got up, almost as if he was daring her to contradict him.

"Perfect," she agreed. "I will come and talk to you there as soon as I get the results back." He nodded and left the room. Janet sighed, looking down at the vial of dark red fluid in her hand. She sincerely hoped that she could find some answers for him. For his sake.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"You sure you want to do this, Jack?"

Jack looked over at his friend, well aware that Andy's 'aw shucks' exterior held a wise and savvy man. That was one reason they got along so well, their friendship spanning decades. "I'm sure," Jack answered.

Andy led him through deserted halls, their footsteps echoing off institutional tile floors and scuffed walls.

It was late, after 2200 and the office doors were all closed and locked, creating a single hallway with no other place to go than the pair of double doors at the end.

"Where did you find her?"

"A warehouse on the outskirts of town," Andy answered. "My guys thought they were busting a meth lab. They were half right." Andy stopped just short of the doors. "Jack, I've seen some nasty shit in my life but—"

"Tell me," Jack requested, knowing that he was not going to like what Andy had to say, but that he had to hear it, had to know. It was the least he could do.

"It was some sort of medical lab. Fred, the ME, is still trying to figure out what everything is. You said she disappeared a couple of months ago?"

"Yeah," Jack answered. "They found her bike abandoned off 115. The theory was that she'd wiped out and wandered off." Jack remembered the search, sweet talking Hammond into getting him personnel, even a helicopter. They'd spend days looking…and found nothing.

Andy shook his head. "I don't think so. Fred's having a bit of a time determining the exact cause of death, but he didn't mention any injuries consistent with a bike wreck."

"So it was staged?"

"Possibly. Fred found some injuries that do go back a few weeks, but nothing that severe."

"What else did he find?" Jack asked, driven to know.

Andy sighed. "Ligature marks around her ankles and wrists. Track marks on her arms. Other signs of forced custody and abuse."

"Was she—"

"No," Andy interrupted. "There's that small blessing." He reached out and grabbed Jack's arm. "You know, you don't have to ID her. We already did that with her DNA."

"I know."

"Jack," Andy paused. "I don't quite know how to put this –"

"Just spit it out."

"It only took Fred an hour to do the autopsy because…someone had already done one."

"What are you saying?"

"She's in pieces, Jack," Andy said bluntly. "You don't want to remember her like that."

_She stared at him for a second, then her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched. "Do it," she requested. Breathing heavily, he stared, his arm slowly lowering. "Do it!" she yelled, stepping towards him. He stepped back, retreating. "DO IT!" she yelled again, raising her hands to push him back.  "Come on! Don't just stand there! Or is that all you're good for anymore, empty threats!" She pushed him again and he staggered back, off balance. _

_"Carter—"_

_"Screw you," she said coldly. She reached under her shirt and pulled her dog tags from around her neck, throwing them at him. "And screw this place."_

_She stalked down the hall, her long legs eating up the distance. She turned the corner and vanished from view, only her anger and pain left behind. And hatred. Her hatred for him._

"Just get me in there," Jack bit out, banishing the memories as he grew more and more frustrated with his friend. He wasn't some wet behind the ears rookie that needed to be protected. He already had a pretty good idea what he'd find behind that door. It was what he'd been expecting ever since she'd gone missing months ago.

"Ok."

Andy stepped past him and opened the doors, ushering Jack inside. The room was bare and cold. Stark white tile covered floors and a walls painted a sickly blue-green greeted him. Three stainless steel tables stood in a row, one of them occupied by a sheet shrouded shape. Jack stepped forward, drawn to it.

There wasn't much left, his mind decided, noting just how thin the figure was. The sheet was barely raised, seemingly lying flat on the shiny metal surface.

"There's not much left," Andy said.

Jack's hand hovered over the sheet, wanting to pull it back and desperately afraid to do just that. It was his fault she was here. His fault she'd run away. His fault she was dead.

"They really did a number on her," Andy said. Jack ignored him, reaching out to grab the sheet.

"Hey!" Andy said loudly, making Jack turn around. "Is this what you're looking for?" He tossed a large jar towards Jack who caught it.

The gray, rubbery shape wobbled alarmingly in its formaldehyde bath. Jack stared in horror at the jar, automatically reading the label.

S. Carter. Cranial Contents.

Disgusted, he dropped the jar. It shattered on the tile floor, formaldehyde splashing on his pant legs and the brain itself skittering across the floor, bouncing slightly.

Jack sat up, his heart pounding in his chest. His breath rasped in his throat and he fought down a surge of nausea. A dream. That's all it was, just a dream.

Glancing at his watch, he swung his feet over the edge of the bunk and stood up. Frasier had to have some results by now. He yanked the door open and stopped short, almost knocking Frasier over.

"Sir." She flustered a bit, surprised by his abrupt appearance. "Is everything ok?"

"Yeah, fine," he dismissed. "What'd you find?"

"If you don't mind?" She gestured and he stepped back, letting her into his room. He shut the door and motioned for her to take a seat at the small desk that was in the corner. "I got the test results back."

"Figured that."

She smiled slightly. "You know that there are things in the brain called neurotransmitters," she started. "They sort of chemically bridge the gap between neurons—"

"Doc," Jack interrupted.

"They're what makes the brain work," she said. "And if you're lacking some, then the brain doesn't work right. Sir, your serotonin levels are very low."

"And this is bad?"

She nodded. "Low serotonin levels can cause irritable behavior, sleeplessness, anxiety, even to the point of suicide."

"You think that's why I blew up at Carter?" Jack asked, feeling a tiny glimmer of hope that whatever was wrong with him just might have a nice, simple cause.

"I think so. Colonel, in all my studies of symbiotes, everything has suggested that the goa'uld exerts control over the host's body, even to the cellular level. It can heal, control pain, replace the host's immune system. As far as we know, it can literally take over the host's body and serve as it's brain."

"This is fascinating, but what does it have to do with me?"

She held up her hand. "Well, one way to do this would be to override the host's neurotransmitters. I don't think it's too far of a stretch to presume that the symbiote could also mess with a host's serotonin levels, either consciously or unconsciously."

"What? Like a booby trap?" Jack asked, trying to make sense of it all.

"Possibly not a deliberate one," she said. "Sir, you remember when you broke your leg and used the crutches."

"Yeah."

"Once your leg started to heal, you had to wean yourself off the crutches, get used to walking normally, even train yourself not to limp."

"You think this is the same thing?" he asked.

"It's possible. Sir, I am just playing a hunch here and drawing a conclusion from partial evidence. However, both you and Sam have recently hosted symbiotes. And you report mood swings. I think Sam hitting you is in support of something being wrong with her." She pulled a piece of paper out of a folder and handed it to him. "Four years ago, I ran blood work on Sam, during her recovery from Jolinar. Her serotonin levels were similarly low. I didn't connect it before simply because she had cause for the lowered levels and there was the possibility that it was related to her new blood chemistry."

"So you think this is what's wrong with both of us?" Jack asked.

"I think it's very possible. I would need to talk to the Tok'ra and run some more tests on Sam to be sure but…yeah, I think this could be it."

Jack nodded. "Ok. So what do we do to fix it?"

"Colonel, I think the best treatment for this is time," she said. "There are anti-depressants on the market, however it can take days to weeks to figure out the right dosage. And the drugs have a high risk of dependence. You can't just quit them, you have to decrease the dosage slowly. We're talking about weeks or months of treatment for a problem that might fix itself in a few days."

 Jack frowned, her words not quite what he'd wanted to hear. "But what about the mood swings?"

"I would hope that, now that you know what's causing them, you can control them," she said with a shrug. "There's really nothing pharmacological that I can do for you."

He scrubbed his hand over his face. "I gotta go talk to Carter," he said.

"Colonel?" She got to her feet.

"Look, we aah, I gotta go talk to her," he insisted. "Thanks, Doc," he said sincerely, patting her shoulder. "I owe ya one."

He turned on his heel and hurried from the room. Right now he needed to get to Carter's and he needed to talk to her. He needed to see if he could set things straight and find out if he'd finally gone too far and done more damage than he could fix.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sam pushed her front door open, slamming it shut behind her. The small outburst did little to alleviate the anger that was bubbling in her gut. How dare he? Rude, arrogant bastard. After everything they'd been through, everything they'd done for each other, how dare he treat her like that?

She tossed her keys onto the table and stalked into the living room, finally coming to a halt, her hands on her hips and her heart beating fast. The ugly words they'd shouted at each other echoed in her ears and she closed her eyes, wondering just how in the hell things had blown up that way.

Yeah, there was a little tension between them, there had been ever since he'd returned from Ba'al. He said he didn't blame her for talking him into accepting Kanan, and maybe he really didn't. But she sure as hell blamed herself. For some strange reason, 'I'm sorry you were tortured and killed over and over, sir, but hey, look at it this way, you could be dead' just didn't seem like a good thing to say.

She sighed, running her fingers through her hair. Her hand hurt and she held it in front of her face, staring at her bruised knuckles. Oh God. She'd hit him. She remembered that. She'd gotten so mad and she'd hauled off and decked him.

Striking a superior officer, that was definitely not a good thing to do. It wasn't like last time, when Hathor had invaded the base and she knocked out General Hammond. Saving the base tended to buy one a little latitude. But she didn't have that now. There was no excuse, no rationale for her behavior.

It didn't matter that he'd insulted her and hurt her. He was her superior officer. He had that right. She was wrong and she never should have hit him. 'He hurt my feelings' wasn't going to be a good defense at her court martial.

That's what they'd do. Court martial her, lock her up, kick her out of the SGC. No they wouldn't. Not if she quit first. That would probably be for the best anyway. It was obvious that the colonel no longer wanted her around. Teal'c would agree with him and Jonas, well Jonas was too agreeable to stress over her being gone. It'd probably be better for him anyway. He wouldn't be the new guy any more if she was gone.

She went into her study, not in the mood to wait for her computer to boot up. Grabbing a few sheets of paper out of the printer, she dug in the drawer for a pen and started to write, the words of her resignation coming horribly easy to her.

It wasn't the first time she'd done it, been ready to quit. Right after Orlin, when she'd returned to Earth with a very much alive SG-16, she'd come home, her stomach churning after three very tense hours in General Hammond's office, only to find her home, her sanctuary, ransacked.

She remembered standing in her living room, her front door hanging off its hinges, staring at her belongings strewn about. She guessed that they'd taken their frustration at losing Orlin out on her space, using the excuse of searching for any signs of alien left overs to finish their violation of her privacy.

With tears welling in her eyes, she'd gone into her den. They'd even confiscated her computer but had left some blank paper behind, so she'd grabbed a pen and written out her resignation, just like she was doing now. She couldn't work with people that didn't trust her and that she couldn't trust.

Just as she'd signed her name she heard a knock at the door and the colonel had walked in, Teal'c and Daniel behind him. They didn't say anything about Orlin, or all the trouble she was in. They just offered to help. They spent the whole night, picking things up, putting things right, slowly rebuilding their trust in each other.

She'd torn her resignation up, their simple act of assistance enough to convince her to try and trust again.

"Orlin," she whispered, remembering the gentle man. He was sweet and loving, in his own way. She'd felt so special when he'd been here. He'd liked her and cared for her. He didn't care for rank or propriety, all he wanted to do was to get to know Samantha Carter. He was the first guy in a long time who simply cared for her, not her job or what she could do or how she would fix something. All he wanted was to get to know her.

And for that he'd died.

Sam closed her eyes, remembering holding his hand in hers as he ascended, vanishing in a soft flash of light. He was gone. So was Narim. And Martouf, Lantash. Poor Lieutenant Elliott who'd died simply because he'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Suddenly curious, she reached for a fresh sheet of paper, filling it this time, not with her resignation but with names

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Half an hour after his meeting with Frasier, Jack pulled up outside Sam's house. He parked behind her car, glad to see that she'd made it home but half afraid that she hadn't stayed there.

He knew it was just a dream, probably just a replay of the year previous and that horrible Monday morning when she hadn't come to work. But he still couldn't shake the image from his mind. Couldn't forget the shattering of glass, the cold splash of the formaldehyde on his legs.

He took a deep breath, trying to banish the memories. It wasn't real, so it didn't matter. What mattered was that he keep it from happening.

Pushing open the door, he got out of his truck and made his way up the walk. He reached for the key she'd given him last year. That was how he'd known he, and the rest of the team, were in the dog house after that little mess with Orlin, she'd changed her locks and pointedly didn't give them a key. But just a few days after Frasier's released him from the infirmary, Carter had shown up at his office door, a lone key on a pilfered Air Force key chain in her hand.

He hadn't used it since then, hadn't really needed to, but it was on his key ring. He remembered sliding it there, the simple act confirming his absolution in her eyes. He felt better once he had her key, welcome, accepted, forgiven.

Even if he never used it, he had it. And that was what mattered.

He debated whether or not he should use it now.  If she was home, he would probably piss her off more by just walking in on her. But one part of Doc's diagnosis bothered him. Suicidal. Could she? Could she honestly feel that way? Could he have done that to her? Pushed her that far.

He was afraid of what he'd find inside.

He climbed up onto her porch and reached out, ringing the doorbell. Even though he had a key, he still felt the need to respect her privacy. Her door opened and she stood there, frowning at him. "Colonel?" she asked calmly.

"Carter?" Jack frowned, glad to see her alive and apparently well. 

She looked past him. "Why are you here?"

"Are you, aah, you ok?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Umm, I aah, can I come in?"

"Actually, sir, I'm just getting ready for bed," she excused.

"It's 1700."

"I got up early."

"Yeah." Jack pushed past her, ignoring her protests. What the hell was it with women and playing hard to get. "We need to talk."

"I really have nothing to talk about," she protested, closing the door behind her.

"Yeah, well I do," Jack said, walking into her living room. The room was neat and tidy, no clutter, no mess. Her TV was off and he couldn't see any open magazines or books. No sign of what she'd been doing for the past few hours.

"Well?" she said, walking into the room. "Are you going to say something or is this a snap inspection of my living room, sir," she said, crossing her arms over her chest again. She grabbed her phone off the table. "Maybe I should call the sheriff," she threatened, when he didn't respond.

Jack shrugged. "For crying out loud, Carter.  You do not need to call the sheriff.  You just need to listen to me. I talked to Frasier," he said, ignoring her snappy mood. "She thinks she's discovered a previously unknown side effect of being…having…you know," he fumbled, unable to say the words. He gestured feebly towards his neck.

"Really?" She rolled her eyes. "And what would that be?"

"It futzes with your brain," he said.

"Futz?"

"The sara, sara-lee stuff. Frasier thinks that both of us are suffering from a lessened level of serotonin and that's why we're both in such a bad mood," he said.

"I'm not in a bad mood."

"Yes, you are."

"No," she said, her hands going to her hips. "I'm not the one who—"

"Carter, you punched me," he interrupted.

"You deserved it," she shot back.

"Maybe I did," he said, deliberately quenching his desire to just walk right back out of her house. It wasn't her fault, he kept telling himself.

She frowned, taken aback. "What'd you say?"

"If you'd have said to me what I said to you, I'd have punched you too," he said.  "Look, the damn goa'ulds messed with our heads," he said loudly.

She shrugged. "Oh, well, if that's all it is then."

"Carter, what I said today—"

"What you said today was the truth," she said with a shrug, her ire fading. "You were right." Her simple words struck Jack like a bullet in the gut. "It's about time I admitted it."

Jack shook his head. "No, I was wrong."

"You were a little wrong," she said, her eyes flat. "It's not seven or eight, it's more like fifteen. Umm, well nineteen if you count Harlan's robots." Her voice was calm and even. She was scaring him. He much preferred it when she was yelling and screaming, and even punching him. That he could deal with. "Now that you're here, maybe you can help me. Is there anyone I missed?"

She walked past him and into her study, returning with a sheet of paper. "I would have accessed the mission reports but I left my laptop back at the mountain."

Jack took it from her, swallowing as he scanned the list of names.

Mom

Jonas

Narim

Orlin

Joe

Daniel

Mansfield

Elliott

Lantash

Martouf

Seth

Grieves

Kershaw

Sarah

"Carter, Seth was a goa'uld," he protested, grabbing onto the first objectionable fact he could find.

"That he was. But I did kill him. Oh, and the host too. You're right, I killed the host too." She grabbed a pen and took the paper from him, frowning. "Did we ever find out his real name?"

"Sam, stop." He pulled the paper away from her, snagging the pen from her hand.

"Hey, I worked hard on that."

He ignored her protest, sitting down on her couch, hunching over so that he could lay the paper on the table. He thought a moment, then started scrawling names, surprised that they came to him so easily.

She hovered over his shoulder as he wrote her curiosity finally leading her to sit beside him.

He kept writing, finally turning the paper over and using the back. Finally, he leaned back, studying the list one last time before handing it to her. "Anyone, including me, ever gives you any crap about it, you give them this list."

He watched as she scanned the names. "You know Kawalsky and Cromwell. I lost Mike in Kuwait, Aaron, Ken, Rich and Shadow in Yugoslavia. Turner and Mitchell, well we called it Russia, none of this USSR crap. Some of the other guys, I do need to tell you that those missions are still classified, Hammond doesn't even know about them and they were definitely in places the USAF didn't officially go." He stopped and took a deep breath. "You know Daniel and Charlie…" he trailed off, the pain of his friend's and son's loss still present, even though in Charlie's case it was going on a decade since he'd died.

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter." She started to get up.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her back down. "Yes, it does. I don't think that you're a curse and I never should have said anything so mean." She stared at him. "Carter, we're fighting a war and the one universal truth of war is that people die." She looked away from him, her teeth worrying her lower lip. "It doesn't mean that it doesn't suck, but there's not much you can do about it." She still looked away and he reached out, grabbing her chin and making her turn to face him. "Sam.  I'm sorry for what I said. I'm honestly and truly sorry."

He stared at her, refusing to look away until he saw her eyes close and her jaw begin to tremble. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, relieved when she didn't pull away.

He felt her tears slowly soak through his shirt and he closed his own eyes, ashamed of how much he'd hurt her. Unfortunately, he remembered doing the same to Sara all those years ago. How the hell had she put up with him so long he'd never know.

After several minutes, he felt Sam shift and sniffle, the universal signal that her tears were at an end. She pulled away and he let her go, saying nothing when she got up from the couch and retreated into the bathroom.

Knowing that she was probably washing her face and blowing her nose. He picked up the piece of paper, reading the names he'd written. Was there really that many? He'd never sat down and thought about it before, tried to keep a tally of all he'd lost over the years. He considered it bad enough that he'd memorized the standard Air Force funeral service.

He got up and wandered into her den. A second piece of paper lay on her desk and he picked it up, not surprised to read the scrawled words of a resignation. "I don't think so," he muttered, folding the paper in half and shoving it into his pocket. He heard the bathroom door open and he hurriedly left her den. "You in the mood for some company?" he asked, trying not to look guilty.

"What?" She walked back into the living room, her face glowing and her hair damp, confirming his suspicions.

"I don't think Jonas has been introduced to Chinese food."

"I don't think so either," she agreed, her voice tentative but willing to accept his gesture.

"How about I go back to the mountain and round them up?" he offered. "Bring them back here and we can have some dinner."

"If you let me know what time you'll be back, I can call Mister Wong's," she planned. "You can pick it up on the way back."

"Sounds good. I should probably explain to them why we won't be going out in the field for a bit."

"Umm, how are you going to explain that?" she asked, pointing towards the bruise on his face.

"And spoil the mystery?" he said, making a face. "Let's wait and see what the grape vine cooks up," he suggested. "It's always more fun than the truth anyway."

"Maybe I'll go to the store and get a cake," she said.

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Cake? Why do we need a cake?"

She shrugged. "Why not?"

"Indeed, why not. Make it chocolate."

"Devils food," she bargained.

"Even better," he agreed. "I'll be back in a couple of hours."

He stepped out the door and Sam closed it behind him, taking a moment to watch him stroll down her walk and climb into his truck. Lessened serotonin huh? She needed to call Janet, find out more. Maybe she could do a little research, see if there was some sort of cure or treatment.

Sam wandered back into the living room, picking up the list off the table. So many names, so many people. He'd lost so many friends.

She didn't know how he dealt with it, how he handled so much death. She couldn't. She already knew that. She was a coward, too afraid to lose someone else to respect his wishes.

_'Colonel, Please.'_

She knew as soon as she used those words, he'd agree. That was why she'd said them. She'd manipulated him. She'd known it at the time and rationalized it by thinking the intelligence was important. It was amazing what a person could rationalize when they wanted to.

Amazing and scary.

He was alive because of her. But he'd also went through hell because of her. Everything he'd survived with Ba'al was because of her. This whole mess was because of her. Not because she was too big of a coward to lose someone else, but because she'd do anything to keep from adding his name to her list.

Fin


End file.
